Chasing Amanda

by Melissa Foster

  “It’s the Knowing, Cole,” Molly said quietly. “There is something here,” she explained. “Well, something back there,” she turned and gazed toward the darkened road behind them.

  Cole stared at her in disbelief. He wasn’t sure which he disbelieved—her or what was actually happening.

  “I don’t know why it happened earlier,” Molly said, matter-of-factly.

  Cole watched her eyes and knew she was already calculating her next step.

  “The Perkinson House!” She made fists with her hands and blurted, “It started when Newton was discussing the Perkinson House!”

  “What?” Cole was lost. “Why the Perkinson House of all things?” His mind was still sifting through the medical possibilities of what he’d seen happen to Molly.

  Molly ignored his question. “I have to get into that home,” she exclaimed deliberately. “There’s something there—a clue maybe. There must be some correlation to Tracey.”

  “Molly, please.” Cole shook his head. “After what I just saw, how do we know there isn’t some other explanation—a medical explanation,” he grasped for clarification, rationalization. “There has to be some reason you blacked out, Molly. It looked like you had some sort of a seizure, not some…some...”

  Molly broke in, “Some paranormal weird type of thing that you can’t explain, Cole? Well, I’m fucking sorry, okay, but that’s what’s going on with me. I’m not sick! God!” She turned away from him. “You’ve known me forever, Cole. Have I ever had a seizure?”

  Cole grit his teeth.

  “Why can’t you believe me?” she yelled.

  Cole, equally infuriated and concerned, continued staring at Hannah’s driveway, “This isn’t Philly, Molly! Maybe you’re losing it again.”

  He turned toward her just in time to see her recoil as if she’d been slapped, then quickly turned away.

  “Look at me!” She grabbed his chin and moved his angry face in her direction. “Cole, look at my bandage.” She held the bandage up in front of him, displaying the undeniable T. “You saw what happened back there. There must be something in the woods or something…I don’t know, some…thing, or connection, here on White Ground Road.” Just as Molly finished speaking and looked up, a revelation spread across her face. “Hannah, of course.”

  Cole turned and spotted Hannah walking toward the car.

  The evening seemed endless to Molly. As soon as Hannah had touched her arm she had been assaulted by images: a woman kneeling on the dirt, surrounded by woods—in a forest-cocoon—leaning over a wooden box; nail heads defining a visible edge across the lid.

  She’d pulled back from Hannah and urged Cole to take her home. He’d grown angry at her rudeness toward Hannah, and they’d ridden home in another uncomfortable silence. Their relationship had become a roller coaster of emotions, and Molly was unsure how to change its course.

  She was exhausted and felt guilty for having ignored her civic responsibilities. She sat down behind her desk and logged onto her Civic Association email account. As she had expected, there were twenty-seven new emails. Molly sighed, glad to at least be comfortable in her favorite drawstring sleeping shorts and Cole’s comfy long-sleeved shirt. She pulled her feet onto the chair, beneath her, and reluctantly scanned the messages, passing over the political materials. Great, only twenty-two more. She grabbed a chocolate from the desk drawer and focused on the task at hand, prioritizing based on the subject line rather than trying to tackle all of them by dated order. She would get through what she was able with the little energy she had left. The rest would have to wait. Molly felt a presence and looked up to find Cole standing in the doorway. The disappointed smirk on his face was one Molly was becoming increasingly used to.

  “Email?” he said flatly.

  Molly shrugged, “BCA stuff.”

  Cole rolled his eyes and walked away.

  Molly’s heart sank as the fissure between them grew. She knew she should leave the emails for the next day and patch things up with Cole, but she couldn’t find the justification to apologize for wanting to help Tracey. If only she’d have had the courage to have helped Amanda. Damn it! Cole is my husband! He should believe me unconditionally. She pushed her anger aside, took a deep breath, and turned back to her computer, listening to Cole’s heavy footsteps climb the stairs and flinching when he slammed the bedroom door.

  Her eyes were drawn to three responses to her original announcement about Tracey’s disappearance. She read the first two—thank you notes from residents that promised to keep their eyes open. Just as she was about to open the next email, Stealth and Trigger suddenly burst into fits of barking. She could hear them clawing at the back door. Molly picked up her mug of tepid hot chocolate, took a sip, and wondered what she’d have to deal with now. She turned back to her computer but could not block out the frantic barking. Annoyed, she went to the kitchen and opened the door, releasing the alerted dogs into the yard—and finding a folded paper taped to the back of the door. Molly snagged the sheet, more annoyed than concerned, and unfolded the simple white paper. The typed message sent a chill down her spine, “FIND HIM AND YOU WILL FIND HER.”

  Fourteen

  Molly woke with a start. She was becoming increasingly used to the fearful state that greeted her in the mornings. She reached for her journal and began scribbling down the horror she’d seen and felt. Her mind reeled from the Knowing while Cole slept, blissfully unaware, beside her. She never failed to be amazed at his ability to not only fall asleep quickly, but to sleep so deeply that her constant trips to the bathroom never seemed to rouse him. She was too hyped up to go back to sleep. The clock glowed red—four A.M. She climbed from the bed and into her gray sweatpants, slipping Cole’s Cape Cod sweatshirt over her head.

  Stealth and Trigger followed her as she moved downstairs and entered the mudroom. She forced her feet into her pink converse high-tops, grabbed her backpack and her keys, and slipped silently out the door, dogs in tow. She trembled from the cold—or maybe from her nerves—and climbed into the van. Stealth claimed the back bench seat, and Trigger settled for the floor.

  “Thanks, guys,” Molly said to them. “I know it’s early, but I could use the company.” She knew she had been too focused on Tracey lately and needed to clear her mind. She crawled gently through the slumbering town, passing the Country Store and the darkened houses. Everyone must be sleeping, the perfect time for a criminal to prowl the streets—with no one the wiser. She shuddered at the thought.

  A glimmer on the lake caught Molly’s eye. She pulled over and parked on the side of the bridge, causing the dogs to stir.

  “Relax, we’re okay,” she assured them in a quiet voice. The beauty of the evening was not lost on Molly. She reclined her seat and watched the light sparkle across the water. The inlet from which the light emerged began to ripple. Molly squinted and quickly realized it was caused by a canoe. She watched the lone occupant paddle across the peanut-shaped lake, toward the bridge. Another insomniac, Molly thought, wondering where it was headed. She watched the canoe until it disappeared under the bridge and then reappeared on the other side. A gentle mist trailed behind the canoe as it streamlined toward the shore. Molly knew most of the residents of Boyds and was intrigued to see who else could not sleep on such a beautiful night. She raised her seat, started the car, and drove up and around the corner. The dogs whined as she came to a stop.

  Molly sighed, “Okay, c’mon,” and grabbed their leashes. The dogs jumped out of the van and hurried to the short strip of grass that separated the lake from the road. From her vantage point, Molly watched the canoe careen closer to the shore, the dark water rippled silently as it snuck into port. The person on board hunched over in a heavy coat and hat. The dogs picked up a scent, and they made their way further down the bank through the tall grass. A bunny hopped in front of Molly, Stealth and Trigger immediately gave chase. Molly yanked their leashes, and they gave in to their restraints, sulking, but poised to pounce again.

  The street Molly h
ad turned onto ran adjacent to the peanut-shaped lake. The canoe came to rest on the shore below Pastor Lett’s home. Molly realized then that Pastor Lett must have moved from the manse to the house on the lake after Rodney’s beating. I’d have done the same thing, she thought to herself. The person tugged the boat onto shore and dragged it up a hill, behind several large trees, and draped a brown camouflage tarp over it. Molly was about to wave when she noticed the person covering the canoe with sticks and piles of leaves. She hurried back up the hill with the dogs. Pastor Lett would be furious to know that someone was using her boat in the middle of the night. She ushered the dogs into the van and drove to the end of the cul-de-sac into Pastor Lett’s driveway. She parked at the top of the black-top driveway and was surprised to see the person approaching Pastor Lett’s side door. As she turned toward her car, Molly recognized her.

  Molly’s mind raced, Does she know it’s me? Can I just back up and drive away? Reality set in as Pastor Lett neared her door. Molly rolled down the window, a little nervous. The dogs stood, alert, protective. Stealth growled.

  “Shhh,” Molly said, and Stealth lay back down, his ears perched high.

  Molly turned back to see the fatigued face of Pastor Lett, her dirty, tired appearance not fitting into place in her mind. “Hello, Pastor,” she said, a bit too cheerily for four in the morning.

  “Molly,” she said.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she offered. “Thought a drive would clear my head. Then I saw someone…well…you…in the canoe. I didn’t know it was you, and I was going to see who it was so I could tell you about it in the morning.” She felt like a teenager caught sneaking out at night. “Anyway, so here we are,” she laughed, a little timidly.

  “I couldn’t sleep either,” she said. Her words dragged. “Sometimes I just row to make myself tired.”

  An uncomfortable silence passed between them.

  “Well, I’d better go then,” Molly said nervously, relieved to be leaving. She smiled one last time, and said on her way out of the driveway, “I hope you get some sleep. It’s been a pretty stressful time for everyone.”

  Pastor Lett nodded, and as Molly drove away from her house, she glanced in her rearview mirror. Pastor Lett remained at the top of the driveway, watching her leave.

  Molly drove slowly back across the bridge, thinking about Pastor Lett. She strained to see the inlet which now appeared vacant and still. As she left the bridge behind, she noticed the gated driveway just beyond the lake—the driveway that she must have driven by hundreds of times and never noticed. It was the type of gate used to block off parks at sunset, two green cylindrical metal bars in the shape of sideways Vs which met in the middle and were chained and locked together. The Perkinson House! Molly pulled across the lanes and parked just before the driveway. She reached into her backpack and grabbed the flashlight, wondering if she was brave enough to make the trek up the hill. Stealth sat up and barked, startling Molly. She quickly scanned the area.

  “What is it, boy?” she asked.

  As if on cue, he barked again and pawed at the door. That, Molly could understand—the universal signal for I have to go to the bathroom!

  With Stealth’s needs taken care of, the dogs bounded toward the driveway. Molly juggled the leashes and tried to keep up with the excited dogs while cursing herself for leaving the van parked facing traffic. I’ll only be a few minutes, she thought. The dogs’ noses were on the ground, and there was a bounce in their steps, as if they were on a mission. They reached the bend at the top of the driveway, and Molly stopped, taking stock of her surroundings, trying to summon the courage to continue through the dark woods where the path of the barely-discernable driveway had disappeared. The train tracks lay to her right, but she couldn’t see any signs of a house through the overgrown thorn bushes and thick trees. It must be here, she thought, thinking back to what Newton Carr had mentioned about a driveway. She continued along the path that wound further up the hill and through the trees, picking her way carefully through brambles, and finally came upon an incredible sight. The house seemed magnified to Molly, the way it perched atop the hill, clothed in ivy, standing sentry, the peaks of the roof reaching toward the sky. Despite the evident disrepair of the structure, Molly found herself in awe of its timeless beauty. She could imagine the Perkinson family sitting on the covered porch over a century ago, sipping cider and listening to the trains go by.

  The air was thick with morning dew, gray and misty in the flashlight beam, making it difficult for Molly to see protruding roots through the fallen leaves. She stumbled, finding her balance before toppling over. The dogs vied to be set free—pulling their leashes and, in turn, yanking Molly—the leashes tore out of her bandaged palm. She winced in pain. The dogs trotted happily toward the rear of the property, leashes trailing behind them.

  Molly hurried to follow the panting dogs and found them barking at the weathered and chained cellar doors which emerged from the ground, a treasure chest beckoning to be opened. Molly grabbed the dogs’ leashes and pulled them away from the doors, shushing their loud barks. As they walked deeper into the backyard, the trees thinned, and a path was exposed. They followed it to a weathered yet elegant gazebo where the dried remains of wisteria wound around each carved spindle.

  Trigger pulled Molly back toward the cellar doors. “That’s enough, Trig!” Molly snapped. Molly fanned the light across the back of the house, illuminating the newly-placed boards covering the windows. She tugged hard on Trigger’s leash and they made their way over the crest of the yard to where she could see the lake. She readied herself for the descent down the slippery hill, pulling the dogs closer to her sides and rolling her shoulders back. She eased down the hill toward the inlet below, the ground beneath her feet softening as she neared the water. The dogs rushed as far ahead as their leashes would allow, and Molly was pulled behind, barely able to keep her footing. At the bottom of the hill, the dogs sniffed at the water’s edge. Molly caught her breath and turned back toward the hill. A path of recent footprints in the mud led up the hill and faded into the grassy knoll.

  Fifteen

  Tracey woke cold and aching. Even the slightest of movements sent sharp pains through her body. Light filtered through small holes in the top of the bad spot. Tracey tried to remember how to get back outside, which tunnels and turns to follow—but it was as if the path fell apart in her mind. She buried her face in her hands and cried frustrated, angry tears.

  Tracey’s head snapped upward at the dense sound of footsteps above her. She swiped at her tears, took a deep breath, and held it. A shadow cast over the light, and Tracey’s heart jumped.

  “Tracey, Mummy’s here,” her voice was cheerful. “Are you ready to come out of the bad spot? Have you decided to listen to Mummy and be a good girl?” she asked.

  Tracey let out a whoosh of breath and pleaded frantically, “Yes! Yes! Please!” Her voice cracked. “Please take me out. I’ll be a good girl! I’ll listen! I won’t fight anymore!” she declared, and she meant every word she said.

  “Okay, just a sec,” Mummy said.

  Tracey could hear Mummy brush at the dirt with her feet. She covered her head with her hands and closed her eyes tightly. She remained still, hoping she was really going to be rescued from the bad spot. Dirt spilled through the hole and onto her arms. The sounds of the shovel scratching and scraping against the wood brought her hope. Her captor lifted the wood and Tracey saw her smiling face. Tears of happiness sprang from her eyes. She knew crying made Mummy mad, so she squeezed her eyes shut and tried her hardest to stop. All she wanted was to get out of the bad spot, make Mummy happy, and be a good girl.

  “I’m almost there, sweetie, hold on one more minute,” she said, as she lifted the tangled twigs.

  Tracey reached her arms eagerly for Mummy to grab them. She held on as tight as she could and stood slowly, flinching from the pains that immobility had wrought. Mummy lifted her out of the hole, and Tracey collapsed into her warmth, pushing as far away from the bad sp
ot as she was able. She took comfort in the safety of the arms of her captor. In her relief upon being freed from the bad spot, Tracey said through her tears, “I’m so sorry, Mummy. I promise to be good!”

  Mummy leaned back from Tracey, her firm grip softened, her eyes serious. “Tracey, I put you there for your own good, but you see that Mummy came and got you, right?” she smiled and pulled her close again. “Let’s get you out of those wet stinky clothes and clean you up a bit, huh?”

  Tracey smiled. She was relieved to be out of the bad spot, comforted to be with another person, and thankful to be alive. She held Mummy’s hand on the way back to their bathing place, happy to be taken care of again. Her crying subsided, replaced with acceptance—acceptance of her new life—and her new mummy.

  Sixteen

  Molly approached the rear of the dark house warily, the dogs pulled in the direction of the cellar doors, whining. Just as Molly felt at her wits’ end, about to scream at the dogs and drag them by their fur if need be, she glanced down. A chill ran along her spine as she noticed the faintest ribbon of light beneath the cellar doors. A second later, it was gone. Molly froze, panicked. Her hands released the leashes, though the dogs remained by her side, alert, standing guard. Molly lowered her trembling body and peered beneath the doors. She reached her hands past the shiny lock, and tentatively touched the peeling paint of the old, wooden doors. Molly’s vision instantly went black and images filled her mind, flashing erratically: a man being beaten, huddling, cowering, and chanting; the same man sitting cross-legged on a dirt floor rocking back and forth. Pressure grew against her hands—pressure of a man’s thick, rough palms against her own. Molly shuddered. A second later the sensation was gone. Her eyes darted wildly as she grabbed the dogs’ leashes and sprinted toward the driveway, literally dragging them behind her.